


well, hell

by 24601lesbians



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Christmas Lights, Explicit Sex, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Fuck 2020, Grief, Guilt, Holidays, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Makeouts, annoyances to friends to lovers lmao, implied sex, mild homophobia, rough breakup, u name it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24601lesbians/pseuds/24601lesbians
Summary: Maybe it's giddiness from knowing his voice sounds absolutely fucked, maybe it's the adrenaline from dodging some bruises and doling them out. He walks—floats?—to his drink and runs into Pete, or looks for Pete while thinking about getting a drink. Something. Pete’s face pretty clearly reflects his own, he knows.If ‘05 passed without anything starting or ending, and life went on a little differently until it didn’t.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, past mikey way/ray toro
Kudos: 7





	well, hell

**Author's Note:**

> If the bands connected differently, if years passed without anything starting or ending, and 2020 crawled along.  
> This thing used to be a hundred words and has written itself off the rails and back on again.

Ordinarily Mikey and Pete agree on little except hunting for gigs. They don't discuss why which places draw them, but once they hone in they're like birds against glass doors, stumbling out of the building toward home and knowing it's only a matter of time before they get hungry for the feeling again. 

That's a better feeling than arguing with Ray about Fucking Everything, including how often he says fuck. Fuck talking about people who demand he get off the "moral high ground," and _fuck_ people who think he fakes being a good person. He grew up with Gerard. Maybe Ray should move in with _him_ for three years and see if he doesn't learn about marginalized communities and the dangers of alcoholism and how often his brother says fuck. 

He's annoyed to be thinking about Ray annoying him. He's here to turn his whole brain off. Like Pete.

Mikey snorts to himself (maybe it would be called a snort if someone with lesser cheekbones did it) and looks around, but like, immediately, Pete frowns and asks where Ray is and Mikey's like, "I don't know, we're taking a break" and Pete has to give up shouting and ends up trying to mime _you good?_ but Mikey pretty much hurls himself away toward the front where everyone presses themselves together, and if he wanted to, he could probably scrunch his legs up and the density would carry him. 

Half an hour passes before he's unfocused and loose and just this side of lost. There's maybe an inch of his tshirt that isn't soaked with sweat. He feels disgusting but in an anchoring way, like leaving too much grease in your food. Maybe it's giddiness from knowing his voice sounds absolutely fucked, maybe it's the adrenaline from dodging some bruises and doling them out. He walks— _floats?_ —to his drink and runs into Pete, or looks for Pete while thinking about getting a drink. Something. Pete’s face pretty clearly reflects his own, he knows. 

It's out of his mouth before the thought even flashes in his mind, "Do you want to make out?"

Pete goes through the five stages of dubiousness or whatever, and that's how they end up pushing the doors open with a little more force than necessary on their way to head off to the cleanest corner of sidewalk wrapping around the building. 

Mikey is a bit jumpy when his brain decides to work again, and there's this stupid pause, or he _feels_ one at least, between him pushing his hair back—dimly, he notices it's like, shower wet, impressive—

And Pete drags his shoulders down, huffs about "your shirt dude, even I'M cleaner," and stops because Mikey grips the back of his neck and fits their mouths together.

The first thing he notices is that Pete is _hot_. His hands stroke Mikey's collarbone, his jaw, slide down his upper arm and back up again, resting at his lower back. The tingly part of his spine, tingly now anyway, with the firmness of Pete’s hand and the chill of his gross t-shirt in air that's significantly cooler than the club interior. 

Pete’s mouth. Pete’s mouth is where the hot comes from. It's indecent. Mikey feels his nose tuck under his chin to kiss his throat, lick across his lip again and set one thumb so close to the corner of his lips. Hazy, Mikey snaps back into looking into Pete’s face and the _second_ Mikey's paying attention to the heavy eyes a few inches away, Pete steps solidly between his legs until he's backed up against the brick or whatever it is. He feels Pete’s thumb draw across his lower lip, pulling it back toward the spot below his ear, and so easily he sends Mikey back to panting and grabbing at him. Pete’s hands press into his chest, hard, and Mikey's eyes might roll straight back if Pete keeps sucking on his tongue, oh my god, and he's lightheaded. More lightheaded. 

His fingers are already pretty tight on Pete’s waist, and he's thinking about what might happen if they somehow get closer together. "Do you read minds?" he gets out. Pete’s whole body is on him now, and their lips are still touching when he rasps, "Just greedy," and lets Mikey pull him in by his hair. 

They're moaning each other's mouths and Pete is surprisingly (considering his reputation as such a tactile guy) not groping his ass until Mikey does it without thinking. The floodgates open after that. Neither of them is so sure how long they've been out here, or when the girls by the prius came out to smoke up. Mikey shivers and feels Pete groan, remembering there's no room between their bodies. They're both panting, Mikey so fast his head is still spinning. "Listen," he says apologetically, "These jeans are starting to hurt, and we can't keep this up without something to drink."

Pete grips his neck on one side and _bites_. The cursing and immediate grasping at Pete’s hips are involuntary. Not his fault that his body wants to be closer than close, god, then Pete’s fingers stretch his shirt away from his neck and he bites _again_ , fuck. Sharply, Pete takes his chin. "Go dance. I'll be there when you're done."

He takes in Pete’s face. His cheeks are flushed, lips shiny—which Mikey thinks might actually kill him—his eyes hold Mikey's, long-lashed, possessive, and more than a dash of lust.

Inside, Mikey gulps water at the bar and leaves Pete to sit, feeling eyes follow him up front to the stage. It's a different band, a better one, but he feels itchy knowing Pete is just...watching. After three or four songs he can't take it. He tries to say, "we gotta fuckin resolve this, I'm not spending the rest of my life with walking talking sexual tension," except it comes out as a croak the first three times and after that he feels silly. Just a little insecure, hm. "Can we resolve this? I don't know your plans but you can't keep fucking me with your eyes 'til one of us is dead, man, there's something alarmi—"

"We can take it outside," Pete says archly. 

Mikey knows relief rolls off him in waves all the way to the door, but he knows how sweaty his hands are has nothing to do with the temperature. He sits on a minivan bumper to tie his shoe and Pete pushes his knees apart and tips his chin up to stand too close and kiss him against the vehicle until its owner actually comes outside to turn the alarm off. Laughing, they skitter off to the side, unsuccessfully hiding boner outlines all the way to the nearest cab.

It gets quiet about halfway to Pete’s place. They’re probably too amped up to be thinking about the aftermath, but knowing Pete and himself, the way they’ve both gone quiet says otherwise. Is he, too, considering the way he’ll leave? How early will he be gone? Is it a night to repeat in their heads, when they get moments alone?

The window was opened a few inches when they got in and the cool air has dried him off a little; with no jacket, he’s got a chill from it. The fingers on his, by contrast, are warming him up from shoulders to knees. His leg bounces while they take in opposite sides of the street for the majority of the ride. He feels soft circles on the plane of his hand between his thumb and first finger. Persistent. He shivers, and catches pieces of Pete’s humming between the sounds of vehicles and gatherings they pass. He’s struck by the very sudden urge to find a way to keep this, bottle it, keep it perfect before he forgets the details. 

When the car stops and Pete’s face is clear in the light of the lamp outside his apartment, Mikey gets an eye-crinkling smile from him before he gets the push-pull feeling in his stomach and the mumbles directed up at him while Pete holds the door for him heat the rest of his body back up. 

The small of his back is still damp, but it just makes Pete’s hand feel all the warmer when he directs Mikey through the hallway and draws him in. “Still into it?”

Mikey nods and they meet halfway, kissing as thoroughly as they had been a bare fifteen minutes ago. He pops the button on Pete’s jeans and peels them off.

He comes to life on the couch hours later, on his side and both shins aching from resting on the arm. Pete is still out on Mikey’s shoulder, boxer briefs back on and one leg settled between Mikey’s. He tries to get comfortable again and fails, giving up and gently leading Pete to bed, careful to keep his hands off.

In the morning proper, everywhere he rolls over is a pillow until he remembers to open his eyes and spots Pete’s fuzzy outline brushing his teeth and plugging Mikey’s phone in. He sees that little quirk to his head, where he’s got information that will be amusing to whoever he shares it with. He tries to say what it is, but the toothbrush makes it unintelligible. Mikey scoffs and stretches his legs out, kicking one leg out from under the covers. He is the perfect temperature for a few seconds before a very minty Pete pins him down to kiss his cheek. “Your glasses are stuck in your hair,” he says, then shifts off him to start the untangling process. Mikey stares at the bat tattoo in his face and tries not to feel awkward. It isn’t so hard, after how much like last night his first few moments of today have been, Pete all over him and all. What if Pete thinks he’s just there to fill up the time? “How are you?” he asks the bat.

Above him, Pete’s voice is a little too light. “Tilt your head to the left a little more. You know, lazy Sunday. Not dull, sort of hungry. Well rested,” he looks down carefully. He meets his eyes, trying not to be too neutral.

“I could eat,” Mikey agrees, and accepts his glasses with one hand. He glances at Pete again, not really sure where to start. He doesn’t want to get sucked into the mire of _act natural_ until it, like, festers, but he doesn’t know what he wants. “I, uh. Didn’t stop to think about what I wanted.”

“We just started talking about it.”

“No, I mean, um. This.” He sits up to watch Pete continue fluffing the other pillows. “The sex thing.”

“It’s kind of the definition of friends with benefits. I need to know more about Ray, though. Like, if you want to keep going.” He turns to Mikey and leans back on one hand. Mikey thinks for a moment and nods. Pete uncrosses his legs. “I think I want to keep going? I’m just not fucking around with something that’s already off-balance.” 

Mikey tells him about moving out to Gerard’s three weeks ago because of the way Ray talked about there being too many gays in media little by little for a year, the way he walked right over his boundaries now, and the way he had said, “We’re both hypocrites, Mikey, why do you act like I’m the only one who needs to change?” before Mikey locked his expression down and explained that he’d been working on his mindset for longer, and it wasn't just something he could do _for_ him, all the legwork to help Ray understand other people’s lives. It was his responsibility as a partner to point out things that made him uncomfortable, and Ray was welcome to do the same except to growl at Mikey to stop cursing and belittling him. “I was as calm then as I am right now,” he assures Pete, because he had been. “I was the one who said we weren’t separated, we were done. For at least six months.”

Pete covers his hand with one just as calloused, and says nothing for a long time.

When they part ways for the day, he’s full of coffee and a few shreds of brioche, and it’s early afternoon. They drew up one reminder and a rule each on their café receipt:

_Attn: all boundaries srs business. We didn’t come to each other to be serious._

  1. _Be a gentleman and take me out to dinner first, no exceptions._ That one was Pete’s.
  2. _There is a once/week maximum._ Mikey isn’t ready to be attached to anything again. 



Mikey’s not too tired and angry to be sad anymore. It fills him up less, now, than the way it did the first few times. Before they even talked about their problems, Mikey had already cried about Ray, furious or mournful by turns, since the first time Gerard gently suggested they take a break from each other. “Get your bearings,” he’d said. “I won’t talk to him about it if you don’t want me to, Mikes, but you’ve known who you are for a while. I’d hate to see you sacrifice that to appease somebody.”

Then Frank had mouthed _do you need somebody to beat him up?_ because of course Frank had snuck in to support Gerard supporting Mikey. 

It had really just been a bunch of disconnected days that kept getting harder as he came to terms with what he needed to do. First asking him not to be underfoot while he was cooking, like five times in one day after Ray had tried to blow him in the kitchen the day before. The paper towels had caught on fire, a little bit. Then, when he stopped asing Mikey if he was too busy for phone calls, which he was _allowed to be, especially three timezones away during talks with labels, fuck,_ and just started calling at any hour he wanted. After that it was boundary after boundary, arguments about stupid shit where Ray paid more attention to the words than the meaning. Than to Mikey. 

He’s lying on the couch, except for one foot resting on the floor. In his head he calls it a half nap--no deep sleep, just closed eyes and some drifting if he’s lucky. This thinking shit doesn’t belong in a half nap. Alone time. When his phone buzzes, he cracks an eyelid and takes in the lazy movement of the fan above his head. It isn’t quite hot enough for air conditioning yet, but getting close. He feels his eyes get heavy again and rolls with it. His love for the apartment his brother shares with Frank surpasses his weariness on the days Gerard forgets to close all the windows and they all come home to waves of stifling LA air.

All fun and games until he wakes up at five or six, gentle gold light from the sun bouncing off of the building next door, and doesn’t know where he is. He relaxes enough to sit up. Works a cramp out of his shoulder. There is, naturally, nothing to eat, so he goes out to wait for the bus. Better than walking so many blocks when the buildings have been baking all day. He’s got an hour-old notification from Pete.

_u up to something?_

_if frank doesnt behead me for buying from the chinese place he hates_

_the question is will he feel remorse_

_he’d sic my own brother on me_

He almost misses the stop for the restaurant, but his order isn’t ready when he gets there anyway. 

_how is he_

_ill ask him when im done hiding food origin_

He lurks off to the side behind an elderly couple and a bunch of teenagers until someone stops dead in front of him and startles him away from his phone. “Sorry,” he says to the girl. He digs his card out, feeling foolish for being too absorbed for his surroundings, and more so when she turns away and he immediately checks his phone again, only this time it’s Gerard. The guilt of not checking in for almost a day becomes more prominent, but he says _I’ll talk to you soon, home soon, sorry_ and lets it be.

The miso barely makes it home without him demolishing it, he’s fucking _hungry_ , but letting the smells fill the apartment is worth it. He bustles through the kitchen, pulling out the “favorite” bowls from a cheap Corelle set that all look the same, the round little spoon Gerard accidentally stole from a hotel in Detroit, tearing paper towels in half for napkins because Frank is an animal and won’t buy any. Out of habit he hides the bags the food came in but knows he’ll get snarked at anyway when Frank finds them. The smells do the work of bringing the others out, and when Frank’s clothes are askew when he and Gerard emerge from their room, and he mentally congratulates himself on his strategy. Years of trial and error have informed most behaviors for luring them out to do necessary things. Like eating.

They ask him about last night, how the bands were, how the crowd was, and he answers around bites of chow mein and coconut shrimp. He almost succeeds at keeping Gerard from being suspicious until he asks Mikey why he didn’t call in the morning. It’s a habit from before even the band: if he stayed out too late, went home with someone, chased three shows at three venues in a night, it was fine, just as long as he called in the morning to let Gerard know he was okay.

He decides that being careful might be best. “Pete’s couch made my shins all achy. And I had to load him into his bed, too. Motherfucker is _dense_.”

“Yeah, I get your issue. Because Frank is fucking dense.”

Frank flips him off, but they’re too busy fighting viciously for the last piece of crab rangoon. Gerard crinkle smiles at Mikey, and everything is okay.

The drought is shitty as ever but the AC is good, when Gerard’s ancient model can keep up. They’re supposed to have a dust storm in a few hours, with lightning and everything, which seems extreme to him. But his brother doesn’t seem to mind, and after a few years living and working out here, Mikey will bow to his judgement. If being awake before noon isn’t freakish enough, Gerard explains that storms are good for cleaning, and Mikey texts Pete a quick _manning trash bags for g again, compare biceps later?_ and disappears into the hall closets.

It’s been two hours and they’ve only gotten through one of the shelves when Frank gets back from the studio, which is a hoot. His fingertips are looking ragged, and he’s got visible coffee jitters. Mikey, who’s been picking staples out of the carpet under the desk and finishing every coke in the place, looks about the same. Frank lifts a little bear-shaped plastic container, takes a fucking swig, and Gerard, who had just come into the room, makes a disgusted face Mikey hasn’t seen in a minute. 

They make it to the second closet by fiveish, Frank swatting Mikey for crossing himself before opening a few of the opaque boxes, Gerard taking a deep breath to snark at them before they make stupid noises back at him. Mikey idly notes how dark it is outside, the eerie absence of traffic sounds. They get to the bottom corner and a copy of their last record stares at them through the side of a plastic bin. They quiet down a bit, as they individually reminisce, suddenly extra glad for the fact that their friendships and relationships, in Frank and Gerard’s case, still exist. That their lives were so fitted together.

Gerard digs the costumes out half as a joke to lighten the mood, half as penance. Mikey had hung onto his own jacket, wearing it sometimes to match a specific pink and gray t-shirt, but when his brother lays the old shirts out-- _how did I wear these on purpose?_ \--he good-naturedly puts one on to send a picture to Frank and Ray.

Ray. Ray had seemed kind of happy on his own pretty much right away, like he had just been afraid that Mikey was the one that wasn’t ready to be on his own. He’s not a huge social media guy by any means, but he plays little virtual concerts from time to time and records himself cooking. He texts Frank and Bob in the groupchat Frank had made for introducing dogs they’d met, Mikey knows, but only once every few days does he bestow pieces of his life on Mikey.

By 9:30, there’s a pile of shit in the hallway, and no one is minding it. In their storage-scented Killjoy outfits they sit on and around the jut of the kitchen counter, moaning compliments into cupcake-sized stuffed peppers that Frank had prepped before he left that morning. 

Mikey opens a photo from Pete, and he’s bleached his hair. 

_looks good_

_blondes do have more fun. got giddy in the barbershop_

He opens the photo again to figure out if he finally went to the stylist that Mikey recommended over and over, but Frank puts the dishes in the sink, leans in by his shoulder, and nods his approval. “Haven’t talked to that fucker in a minute. Looks good though. Did he finally go to Twin Vista?”

Mikey shrugs and shows Gerard before he gets too nosy and steals Mikey’s phone to look.

“It really makes his face look warmer, like the light feels different. It doesn’t feel very Pete.”

The act of doing it is Pete enough, Mikey knows. “Quick change.”

Gerard is zoned out a little but nods, kind of _I’ll grant you that_ , but his eyes are locked on Frank’s hair. Frank looks up and points the sponge at him, like a challenge. “I’m not bleaching my shit again, let alone upkeep on my own. Even if you ask me nicely. I have an image to uphold.” He shakes the sponge twice for good measure.

Mikey decides on a graceful exit. He lifts one of the suds Frank just splattered on his arm, deposits it into his hair, and exits to a robust, “Gerard, is there something on me? He leaves like a fucking cat but I swear he--”

A week later, plus a day, so he doesn’t look like a stickler for punctuality, he calls Pete while pacing the kitchen. There’s a clattering on the other end before he hears anything that sounds remotely like speech. He waits a moment, then tries to speak again. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he hears. “A little out of breath. I was cleaning to put Christmas lights up and almost knocked over the ceramic bowl thing--the one the mail is in? And about killed myself trying to keep it on the counter. My phone is cracked to shit.”

“Good to know that it works, though. Movie tonight?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I’ve been looking at Bombshell.”

They list a few others, but settle back on it. “Eight o’clock, don’t you dare be late,” Pete says. He salutes Pete, then laughs at himself for doing something invisible, explains the laugh, and hangs up.

When he gets there, Pete has clearly been sitting down taking apart strings of lights to find out which bulbs are burned out, a little pile of them off to one side and the lights in hand. “If I let go, I’ll lose my place and have to start over.”

Mikey holds the string of lights while Pete gets the TV going, and sits down with him and starts working on the multicolored string. It’s one of the old school kind, warm pinks and yellows, red-orange, green. His hands light up with whichever one he’s holding, which is kind of cool. But they’re both a little more focused on Charlize Theron. 

He holds Pete’s strand again while he putters around in the kitchen to heat leftover tacos, and they trade because Mikey is _starving._ When he comes back, Pete has most of the white lights in his lap. The way they light him up looks really nice. Every time he moves, highlights shift across his jaw, his nose, the shape of his eyes.

They get too absorbed to keep giving the lights proper attention; when it ends, they feel all the emotion in their guts, and it takes a while to snap out of it. “You want to watch something we don’t have to pay attention to?” Mikey is nodding even before Pete gestures with a fistful of the lights. They find some subpar action movie and try to focus back on the lights.

Pete finishes his and loops it up neatly between them. Then he pulls the battered box closer to himself to start untangling another string. 

“I should have checked how many you had before I got in over my head,” Mikey says.

“It’s the last one,” Pete assures.

“You promise?”

“As close as I get to promising,” Pete says, and it hangs in the air for some time. Mikey has to focus on his hands and tell himself not to worry about what it means until he’s home, in private, not trying to stick tiny ass lightbulbs into tinier holes. They chatter a little bit, and it comes more easily when they just watch their hands. 

He carefully loops the lights around his elbow, the way he does when they’d all finished a practice session. Used to. He thinks about all the times he did it before it occurred to him that anything would end. Then how it felt a little more sacred, to do it himself when he could. Then the sensation of being physically ill before unplugging his equipment and starting to wind up the cords, knowing that the last time was _soon_.

Abruptly, Pete moves closer and grabs it, looking at him from a few inches away, like a dare.

Dares are different when you’ve been a professional little--younger, not little--brother all your life, and lived with Bob for more than six days. There are ways to circumvent them, and ways to crank people up and make them feel like they were just daring themselves. He raises an eyebrow and closes not half, but three quarters of the distance. Pete moves almost in slow-motion, and Mikey’s formula is a success.

He lets go of the lights and thinks delightedly, _oh no, a grudge match, terrible_ , and absolutely lets Pete overtake him. 

He’s smug when their lips meet, but it doesn’t last long. Pete’s hands are everywhere, and Mikey relaxes in the warmth of his body and very sneakily lets himself lose any fight for dominance. He settles into the comfort of being pressed against the carpet in a halo of tiny colored lights, gasping into Pete’s mouth when they grind _just right_ , turning his brain back on only to keep himself from whining every time they stop for air.

Pete’s mouth shapes something in the time between his breath huffing out across Mikey’s neck and his chest heaving full again. His body responds to the warm air with an inward chill in his spine; there’s something about how possessive it feels. When he slides his fingers through Pete’s belt loops to keep him closer, he realizes that he’s been mouthing Mikey’s name. 

There’s a hesitation again between the kissing and undressing, and actual contact. Mikey leans back on his hands and lets Pete look at him, watches the muscles in his forearms work while they ball up his shirt to toss away. He freezes up when their eyes meet, and Mikey can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

They connect after their odd moment, Pete letting a hiss through his teeth when he settles his hand up against Mikey’s cock and the other hand almost around his neck, but not quite. If he squirms a little— _much better,_ hot fingers half on his throat and the crease of Pete’s thigh is perfect to roll his hips against. He sighs at the way Pete’s mouth runs from shoulder to sternum and the way the strokes of his hand are the perfect pressure. 

“More?” 

Mikey shakes his head. “Not--not right now. I’ll tell you what I will do, though,” he continues. He straightens his legs out and adjusts Pete’s body accordingly. “You can fuck my thighs.”

Pete groans before he’s even done talking, kissing up his throat and across his cheek. Mikey meets his lips and uses every dirty trick he can think of.

A couple of weeks pass, and he berates himself for being a slow shopper. He knows he’s squirreled away some things for Frank and Gerard (either they never pay any mind to old appliance boxes, or they caught on long ago and kept their mouths shut), and for Bob there’s a box on his windowsill that holds a creepy porcelain child that bears a strong resemblance to him.

Ray’s gift is in his closet, three flat-ish silver ornaments that he painstakingly traced keys onto. One each for where they were living when they got together, and one for the apartment they’d moved into together.

However, Ray’s gift is probably no longer appropriate, and it didn’t cross his mind to buy Pete anything, like. Ever. 

In the morning, he’d ordered the fancy rare pegs and expensive cleaning cloths Ray had always liked, which leaves him time to aimlessly wander the branches of a mall, or as aimlessly as one can while trying to use their nose to find the guy who makes cinnamon almonds. When he finds the kiosk, he waits in line behind a kid toting a very small sparkly backpack. The kid jams a very small sheep into it, then pulls out a little baggie of quarters. _Genius_ , he thinks. 

The claymation Santa movie on TV is half over, but he still drags Gerard away from his desk to finish it together. On the floor next to the couch, Mikey wraps a tiny holographic backpack filled with one sheep and a shakily hand-sewn moon for Pete.

Christmas eve is just for Gerard, Frank, and himself. The Calling of the Moms has historically commenced in the afternoon, but being on the other side of the country than usual, he has to assemble in the living room with the others at eleven, trying to look put together like he wasn’t out until two the night before. Gerard hums about it when he’s pouring coffee but Frank lets it go.

Last night, Donna had reminded them that she was watching the neighbor kids in the morning, so they call Linda first. She leaves the phone propped on the windowsill while cookies bake and she makes pasta. She smiles wide, hands briskly folding dough, as she tells them about what Frank’s cousins are up to, which one had a big sculpture due last week, and which one found out she was pregnant. They listen to her coo at her dog, and when Frank asks her what books she’s been reading, they stay on the phone an extra hour.

They slowly bring more snacks in from the kitchen to keep up with her, because they know exactly how her kitchen smells and it’s hard to resist imagining her hard work materializing in their kitchen. It’s a calm day, and there’s something about the routine that makes him tired and wakes him up, all at once. 

They call Donna, and she talks shit about her last trip to the hairdresser, tells them how adorable the little neighbor boy is, then busts out her collection of old photographs of their relatives to tell the same stories she always does. Every year she prints out more photos from family events to add them into her little piles, scrawling dates and other aspects of the day on their backs.

She lets them go around three, their time, excusing herself to get dinner started. 

Mikey is only semi-allowed to make dinner, due to past tragedy, but Frank sets him up in the corner with a pile of vegetables to dice and a halloween-themed cutting board with little purple bats. Gerard is singing carols and melting chocolate to dip pretzels, crackers, and popcorn into while the vegetables simmer and Frank boils broth. 

They don’t have much in the way of decorations, but Mikey puts up the upper four feet of an artificial tree while the food smells improve. It’s never had a lower half, but neither of them had had the heart to return it. He wraps the lights onto it, warm yellows tucked carefully to the trunk, and lays out the boxes of ornaments to hang up after they eat. As far back as his memory stretches, Gerard has always hung the silver, gold has been for Mikey, which means the clear glass with a blue-purple sheen are Frank’s. He opens up the other boxes, too, cheap glass ornaments that the three of them have drawn all over, or filled with tiny mementos, or both. These are the ones that they’ve accumulated by mailing them back and forth, and Mikey appreciates that they’ve kept the ones he covered with ugly magazine photos and mod podge, the one filled with beads shaped like finches, the one with his mediocre doodles of bowling balls fistfighting pins.

After they eat and all of the ornaments are up, they bring out all the gifts they’ve hidden away; labels from Bob and Ray and Brian are mixed in with the ones marked for each other. It’s not really cold enough for hot chocolate, but it’s never stopped them from keeping the coffee pot running, he reasons, and just goes with it. 

On Christmas day they call everyone else, mostly leaving short messages to “call us back when you can!” It was noonish when they’d all shuffled out of bed, Mikey and Frank staring at the pattern of shadows the tree threw against the walls while coffee brewed and Gerard took the longest shower Mikey has ever had to endure not using the bathroom during, what the fuck.

Finally Gerard pops out, and Mikey nearly sprints to brush his teeth and get cleaned up. When he’s done, the others have sorted the gifts into little piles for each of them. There’s a tacky fucking microphone ornament for each of them from Otter, with their names in lieu of the cord. Donna sent a fruitcake for all of them to share. Most notably, from Frank’s parents, Gerard opens a striped cardigan that could probably fit a person, plus the couch they’re sitting on.

He and Mikey cock their heads at it, waiting patiently until Frank stops laughing and explains that it’s meant to reduce the need to be under piles of blankets in a Jersey winter. Frosty the Snowman is on the tv, but so is a marathon of 1960s Batman, and Frank’s objections are overruled. That shit is like comfort food. Food thoughts make his stomach grumble to the point where Gerard pushes him with one foot. “Go eat, fucker.” 

“I’m _comfortable_ ,” Mikey says, but he gets up anyway.

Idly, he goes through the fridge and settles on a forlorn yogurt on the brink of expiration. It’s something easy to settle into the couch with, he reasons. Which is fine, until he opens the lid the wrong way. Frank’s sleeve, conveniently attached to the human-sized sweater his mother had _just_ sent him, has a spray of yogurt and its...yogurt juice? all over it.

Before he finishes expressing his disgust, Gerard is up trying to find a detergent pen so the sweater doesn't get ruined. Frank moves his coffee away from the edge of the table when he gets up to help, and he's still making faces at Mikey when Gerard accidentally opens the cupboard door on the side of Frank’s head.

“Fuck, dude.” Frank wrinkles his nose at the wet fabric. “We’re kicking him out.”

“Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“The spirit hates fruit-at-the-bottom, Gerard. Yogurt is like, _the_ nastiest substance.”

“In my defense, I don’t eat it often,” Mikey protests.

Frank fights and eventually covers a smile, taking on a wise expression. “Can’t eat it when you’re so busy giving it to your friends.”

Mikey doesn’t hide it actively, he just kind of wants Pete to himself. _Everyone else has had so long to know him that they take him for granted,_ he reasons. _People change all the time without their friends noticing._ Gabe makes a whirlwind tour of the city the weekend of his cousin’s engagement, and asks him about Pete, and he almost voices these thoughts in conversation, and something stops him. It seems weird to say that aloud, so instead he talks about the best bands they’ve found, all the movies they’ve argued about, and all the ways he used to get revenge on Gabe for eating his leftovers.

They were originally just planning on having lunch, but they end up wandering through kitschy shops, talking about insurance and extreme weather, Gabe’s vegetable garden and the guitar dealer he’s just started talking to. It’s nice to talk to someone he hasn’t spent an obscene amount of time with lately.

He’s sitting on the bench in the corner, taking in artificial sunlight from some overpriced lamp. Gerard has been accusing him of being an Olympic sloucher since he knew what _Olympic_ meant, but it isn't hard for Mikey to think bigger and call himself a gold medalist. He’s quietly reflecting until Gabe’s voice gets through to him. He’s dithering about the shirt selection and doesn’t stop until Mikey suggests he just not buy any of them

"I don't understand," Gabe says.

"They look terrible," Mikey says.

Gabe squints and disappears into the fitting room.

**Author's Note:**

> updates as I have time w work and everything!! BUT!! watch that mf word count grow


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